Sealed Off

by Barbara Ross

  “He is often out sailing in the small sailboat or playing croquet on the lawn with the young men, or swimming off the little beach on the other side of the island. He makes a dashing figure.

  “The staff is pleasant enough, although the housekeeper, Mrs. Franklin, is feckless and absentminded, not good qualities in someone who must manage the household. I doubt she will last the summer. The maids are pleasant, cheery girls who love flirting with the crewmen, who flirt back. The yacht captain is a bit like myself, neither one thing nor the other. He is a Navy man and well educated. Like me, an employee, but not a servant. He has an impressive brown beard and intelligent blue eyes that laugh when he does. Though we are both consigned to limbo, we have not become friends as we see each other infrequently.

  “I write this in my little room off the nursery. It is quite pleasant, especially in the morning when the window lets in bright sunlight, which I think must be why it is placed so strangely. It is too high in the wall for me to see out, though I can always go into the nursery if I need to. I have to open and close it with a tall stick that resides in the room for this purpose. There is a door in the wall that connects my little room to the bedroom next door. It is locked but sometimes I hear Mr. Frederick moving around in there, which is disconcerting.”

  “There was no door to the room next door,” Tallulah protested.

  “It must have been sealed up, too,” Mom said.

  “So strange.” Livvie’s brow was creased, wondering about it as we all were.

  Marguerite put the journal down. “I think that’s enough for now. I believe we’ve leaned on your hospitality long enough.”

  Fee and Vee rushed to assure her that we hadn’t, but Marguerite was plainly tired, so they gave in easily. Jack was asleep on Livvie’s lap and Page on the living room couch. We said our good-byes and Tallulah and Mom escorted Marguerite across the street.

  I stood with Livvie as she put Jack into his car seat. “What do you make of this fascination with the journal?” she asked.

  “It’s harmless,” I said. “It keeps everyone busy and their minds off the murder.”

  “I hope so,” she answered, and climbed behind the steering wheel.

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning Chris went off to work, but I grabbed a stool at the counter at Gus’s restaurant downstairs from my apartment. Gus, my irascible landlord, was behind the counter working the grill top as he did seven days a week, 6:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m., every month of the year except February, when he and Mrs. Gus took off to visit the families of their middle-aged kids who lived in warmer places.

  Though the restaurant was crowded, Gus poured me a cup of coffee and handed me a pitcher of cream without me asking for it. “On your own?” he asked, glancing toward the door at the bottom of the stairs to my apartment.

  “Yes. I’ve got some thinking to do.”

  “I imagine you do. I hear Jason Caraway’s body was found on Morrow Island. Murder, they say.”

  “So it’s all over town.”

  He waved the coffeepot, taking in all the people at the counter and in the dining room beyond it. “It’s everywhere. Biggest conversational item by far when I went around to take orders. The news has to be big to get Mainers off the topic of the weather.”

  I smiled. What he said was true.

  “I hear Jason had a fight with your boyfriend’s brother the day before he was killed.” I didn’t deny it, so Gus went on. “Seems like that makes him the obvious suspect, what with his record and all.”

  “There are other suspects.” My tone was a little too defensive. I looked around to make sure no one was listening. The people on the stools on either side of me were in deep conversations with their neighbors. “I’m not sure the police have even interviewed Terry yet. If he was so obvious, they would have had him into the station last night.”

  Gus shrugged. “If you say so. What’re you havin’?”

  Gus’s menu hadn’t changed since I learned to read. It probably hadn’t changed for fifty years. The prices had crept up, but not much. He only took cash. No credit cards, no checks, and definitely no fancy cash apps.

  “I need to think. So, protein.”

  “Eggs then. How?”

  “Over-easy. Wheat toast.”

  “Home fries?”

  “No, I want to travel light.”

  Once he’d gone, I started thinking about how I could help Terry. I’d assured Gus there were other suspects. Who were they? The obvious ones were the other two people who hadn’t shown up for work the day the body was found: Pru Caraway and Dmitri no-last-name-yet from the demo crew. Of the two, Pru was far more obvious. She was the victim’s ex-wife and involved in the quadrangle of tension: Jason—Emmy—Terry—Pru. The demo guy was a long shot. What possible motive could he have? But the look that had passed between him and Jason at the fire was seared in my memory. I would have to find out something about Dmitri’s background and current circumstances.

  Gus put the eggs down in front of me, cooked to perfection as always. I picked up my fork, pierced the yolks, and watched them run onto the plate. The sunny yellow color of the eggs made me feel more optimistic before I even took a bite. Gus returned to refill my coffee. I dug in.

  If I considered Pru as a suspect, did I have to consider Emmy? She was the mother of my niece’s best friend, and possibly, the mother of my boyfriend’s niece as well. I didn’t want to think too hard about it. She had characterized her relationship with Jason in casual terms, “seeing each other outside work.” What did that mean, exactly? Would that level of relationship provide enough motive to kill? Of course, she could have lied. Even if I didn’t consider her a viable suspect, I had to talk to her. She could give me background about what was going on with Jason, his state of mind, current activities, and so on.

  As could my brother-in-law, Sonny, who’d worked with Jason at the clambake fire for years.

  These were not brilliant insights, but it was enough to get started. I would leave calling on Pru for last. Hers was a house of mourning. She and her kids had only heard the news about Jason’s murder last night. Friends and family would be gathered, even possibly Livvie, who had worked with Pru in the clambake kitchen for two seasons. It would be intrusive to visit this morning, especially to ask questions that might be considered insensitive.

  I had no idea where to find the Russians when they weren’t at work. Maybe Mark or Wyatt would know. Sonny was probably out in his father’s lobster boat. Emmy was probably at home with her kids.

  I paid my bill and walked to Mom’s house. Everything was quiet and her car wasn’t in its place in the old triple-bay garage out back. It was a gorgeous fall day. She must have taken Marguerite and Tallulah on an outing, maybe to visit the beautiful lighthouse at Pemaquid Point and then to lunch in Damariscotta afterward—Mom’s usual outing with guests from out of town.

  I climbed the back stairs at Mom’s to the Snowden Family Clambake office on the second floor. My dad had been dead six years, but neither Mom nor I had changed a thing in the office since he’d worked there. I liked to feel his comforting presence as I went about managing the business. I often asked his advice. He never answered directly, but saying the words aloud, forming them into a question he would understand, usually helped me find the answer.

  There wasn’t much to do at this time of year. The next bake wasn’t until Saturday, and there were only the three over the Columbus Day weekend for the rest of the season. In the off-season, Chris and I ran a dinner restaurant in Gus’s space. It was meant to provide locals with a gathering place after the more touristy restaurants shut down. We’d spent a lot of time in late September planning for the new season and ordering nonperishables. Now there was little to do until we opened.

  I called the director of excursions at the cruise ship headquarters in Jacksonville. I was worried about what to say. Hasty assurances that the situation the day before would never happen again, I supposed. That had to be true.

  “Julia! I heard a
bout the murder.”

  I had hoped the passengers were back safely aboard the ship before news had spread around the harbor about the murder on Morrow Island.

  “You’ve heard,” I confirmed.

  “A couple of our crew spotted the police activity on your island. I couldn’t reach you so I called the Tourist Bureau, who told me.”

  Great. I hadn’t noticed the missed calls from her when I’d returned to the mainland the day before. “You understand then, why we had to cancel at the last minute.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “Because we love having you. We hope you’ll book again next year.”

  “We’ll see,” she chirped.

  I doubted we’d ever hear from her again.

  Le Roi, the Maine coon cat, padded into the office and jumped into my lap. He had a knack for knowing when I needed cheering up. He was almost thirty pounds of long-haired cat, so there wasn’t really room for him on my lap, but I let him stay. I’d missed him. Le Roi, named for Elvis, the King, was indeed the King of Morrow Island. In the summer he had the run of the place and his pick of easy marks to cage bits of clam and lobster from. He’d spent his first six winters with the island caretakers, but a year ago that had become impossible, so Le Roi had spent last winter with me.

  I loved the arrangement and so did Le Roi. The only problem was Le Roi didn’t love Chris. Or like him. Le Roi loathed Chris. The big cat’s attitude was that he and I were a duo. Chris was the interloper. Le Roi had staked his claim by lying crosswise on Chris’s side of the bed and going limp as a demonstrator practicing peaceful resistance when Chris tried to move him. He hid Chris’s keys, money, and wallet. Finally the situation had escalated to the point that Chris couldn’t put his boots on in the morning without checking inside them first.

  So Le Roi was spending this off-season at Mom’s, where he got exclusive time with me when I worked.

  I gave him a pat and called Mark Cochran. If anyone knew where the demo crew was lodged it was him. His young, male receptionist informed me Mark was at a job site off the peninsula all day. He’d return all calls the next morning.

  I didn’t want to talk to the receptionist about the Russians—the fewer people I involved in these conversations, the better—so I thanked him and hung up. There was one other person who might know about the demo crew. I set Le Roi on the floor, went to get my new (to me) Subaru from my mother’s garage where I kept it, and drove out to Westclaw Point.

  Chapter Ten

  I pulled into the sandy double track that served as a driveway for Quentin Tupper’s house on the outer end of Westclaw Point. I was pleased to see Quentin’s old wooden-sided station wagon in the drive. Wyatt used it when she was in town. She was probably in.

  I climbed the steps of Quentin’s marble and glass edifice and followed the decking around to the ocean side of the house. Through the glass front door I spotted Wyatt in the kitchen. I used a knuckle to rap on the pane.

  She looked up sharply. This far from town, in a house facing the water, privacy was assumed. She wore a lightweight, belted bathrobe and sleek black slippers. She was unmade-up, but her hair was brushed and, as always, gorgeous.

  “Julia! I’m surprised to see you here.”

  I couldn’t say, “I was in the neighborhood.” Nobody was this far out by happenstance, so I said, “I want to talk. Do you have a few minutes?”

  Wyatt stepped back to let me in. Quentin’s house never failed to impress, with its soaring ceilings and natural materials. Wyatt and Quentin were old friends. This house had been her first architectural commission. Quentin was long gone for the season, sailing his boat the Flittermouse to warmer places. Wyatt used the house when she was in town.

  Wyatt and I had history, too. We’d been assigned as roommates our freshman year in boarding school. It hadn’t gone well, and by midyear I’d moved out, given a single by a sympathetic housing officer. I’d been flabbergasted when Quentin had recommended Wyatt as the architect for Windsholme. I hadn’t known they knew each other. But in round two on our journey, Wyatt and I were doing much better. We were both older and wiser.

  “I hear work is at a standstill on Windsholme,” she said. Not, “It’s horrible that poor man is dead,” or even, “I heard you found the body. How awful.”

  It was the kind of thing that would have set me off years earlier, causing me to ruminate about how egotistical she was, how it was always about her and her interests. Now that I understood her better I knew she wasn’t self-centered so much as laser focused. Her focus and drive made me comfortable trusting her with our enormous, complicated renovation, not to mention the huge sum of money it required.

  “You’ve heard,” I confirmed. “There was a murdered man found on the island. No one’s allowed to go out there until the cops are done.”

  “Which will be when?”

  “I’ll check in with them this afternoon and see if I can get you a date.”

  She led me to the massive kitchen island and offered me coffee from Quentin’s fancy machine. I said no, thank you, I’d had plenty at Gus’s that morning. “You don’t mind if I help myself,” she said.

  “Of course not.”

  We settled onto the high stools at the island. She turned to face me. “I’ve been thinking about the secret room,” she said. “We’ll need to get all of that stuff out of there to continue the demo. As soon as we can get back on the island, we should photograph everything in the room, exactly as we found it. Then we should bring it all back to the mainland.”

  “I guess.” She was right. The room had to be emptied, but it seemed so precipitous to remove stuff that had sat there undisturbed for over a century within a few days of stumbling across it.

  Wyatt didn’t catch my hesitation. “Where do you want to store it?”

  “Mom’s until we sort it and take whatever we’re going to keep,” I answered after a moment’s consideration. I wasn’t certain how Mom would feel about that, but she was the only one who had space. “Then we’ll let the historical society take whatever they want.” I paused. “That’s not actually why I’m here.”

  Wyatt wrinkled her pert nose. “If not Windsholme, then what?”

  “What do you know about the team doing the demolition?”

  Her perfectly shaped brows flew up her forehead. “You don’t think they had anything to do with the body!”

  “That’s for the police to worry about,” I said, which was true. “But aside from that, what do you know about them?”

  “They’re Russian, but you know that.” She scrunched her brow, thinking. “They strictly do demo, no other part of the job. They move from town to town, season to season. We attracted them here with the work on Windsholme and Rosehill Cottage.” The other renovation Wyatt was working on locally. “Mark Cochran uses them a lot. You should talk to him.”

  “I will. He’s at a job site all day and he isn’t taking calls,” I answered. “Do you know where the crew is staying locally?”

  “Why?” She was immediately suspicious.

  “I want to talk to them about what they saw the morning of... you know.”

  “You’re butting in to the murder investigation,” she accused.

  “Don’t be so judgmental. You were once the beneficiary of me butting in,” I reminded her.

  She grunted. “As you say.” Even her grunts were somehow feminine.

  “Mark owns a house on Bayview Street, the white one in the middle of the second block from the water. He’s flipping it eventually, but right now he’s using it to house his crews as they come through. The Russians can walk from there to the marina to take the beat-up boat Mark found for them out to your island. They live together, commute together, work together.”

  “Must be intense.”

  She gave me a quizzical look. “Don’t you live with Chris and run a restaurant with him?”

  “Only in the off-season. We don’t commute together.” Unless you counted walking down the stairs from our apartment.


  “That’s right, I forgot.” Wyatt’s tone was as dry as the Sahara. “During the season you work with and commute with the rest of your family.”

  * * *

  Bayview Street was in town, an easy walk from my mother’s, so I took my car back to her garage. My plan was to go straight to visit the demo team, but as I walked down Mom’s driveway toward the street, Sonny pulled up in his pickup.

  “Hey, Julia.” He climbed out of the cab.

  “Hey, Sonny.”

  “Hauled some traps for Dad this morning. Thought I’d come over to your mother’s and take the screens off the front porch, since we can’t run the clambake.”

  “That’ll make Mom happy.” Taking down the screens and stowing the porch furniture was a fall ritual.

  We stood for a moment in silence. Sonny looked terrible. His shoulders were hunched and he stared at the ground. Even his normally fiery red hair looked dull.

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” I said.

  “I’ll miss him, Julia. I’ll miss his skill at the clambake fire, and I’ll miss his company.” He stuttered out the last bit, voice heavy with emotion.

  “How long have you known Jason?”

  “He started at the clambake ten years ago, if you can believe it. Your dad was the bakemaster then. Jason and I were both learning. He took to it easily. More easily than I did. He stayed on after your dad died and I was grateful to him.”

  “I often wondered why he stayed,” I said. “For sure he would have made more money if he’d used those same hours for lobstering.”

  Sonny nodded. “Me too. Especially these last couple of years when he’s had that big new boat. He’s obviously doing great with his traps. To tell the truth, I never wanted to ask him why he stayed. I was afraid if I brought up the subject, it would get him wondering. I didn’t want that. I needed his help. For sure I thought he might leave when he and Pru divorced. Morrow Island is small and it was a rough time, from what he told me.”

  “What happened with them?”